


A Whole Bunch Of Incomplete And Horrible Homestuck Drabbles.

by ruxiles



Category: Homestuck
Genre: (kankri has amnesia rip soft boy), Alternate Universe - Succubi & Incubi, Amnesia, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Cuddles, Depressed af Karkat, EverStuck AU, Fluff, Gen, Humanstuck, Incubus Kankri, Kingdomstuck, M/M, Pale Relationship Advice, Pale-Red Vacillation, Royal Kurloz, Servant Mituna, aka that one thing i was going to make but gave uP, for mituna because he is freaking out, seven deadly sins au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-31 03:23:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12667218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruxiles/pseuds/ruxiles
Summary: May or may not continue them, shrug.Ch. 1- Kankri/Cronus (incubus AU; Kankri is an incu and lives with Cronus, who gives him seduction advice).Ch. 2 - Kankri/Cronus (Humanstuck AU, after a horrible car accident, Kankri became semi-paralyzed from the waist down, got amnesia, and forgot the who had been by his side since childhood. Every day, at both 10 and 5 sharp, a stranger would visit. Who was he?)Ch. 3 - Kurloz/Mituna (introduction to an original story and AU called Everstuck, surrounding the Second Kingdom ruled by the Makara Dynasty. Prince Kurloz is finally upon the age to chose his own slave, when he sees an older yellowblood among the crowd. This slave changed Kurloz, for the better or for the worst).Ch. 4 - Kurloz/Mituna (Everstuck AU, where Mituna and Kurloz have bonded and comfort each other in a Pale Relationship; upon seeing the death of Kurloz being his fault in his dreams, Mituna falls into despair and needs pity from his moirail. And pity, he shall receive).Ch. 5 - AU where a depressed, novelist named Karkat Vantas is on the edge of suicide when he moves into a new house; all haunted by seven deadly sins- but they help him rebuild his life.





	1. How To Be A Shitty Incubus With Kankri Vantas: 101.

“ _Cronus!_ In what way is this funny? _I’m_ _sorry_ , but does my pain provide satisfaction for you? . . . _Oh no_ , _please_ continue your sadistic and infantile laughing, but if I’m being _honest,_ Cronus, I’m _really_ starting to find it insensitive and offensive.”

 

“ _Psh_ , sorry Kanny, but you gotta’ admit- this whole situation is _pretty_ ironic.”

 

“ _Do not_ call me that, Ampora. _First_ you insult me by stating my situation is ‘ _ironic’_ , then you proceed to call me by that absurd nickname I’ve _repeatedly_ asked you _not to_ call me by. Goodness, it’s as if I never asked you to stop with those mindless pet names in the first place! _Nor_ do you respect my current dilemma- I don’t mean to seem _callous_ in any way, but for _goodness sake_ Cronus, would it kill you to help me? Isn’t that the role of _‘friends’_ ? But I'm sure _Mituna_ would agree with me on the fact--oh no, _sorry_ , I meant _opinion-_ -that you are an insensitive and uncooperative partner.

“Oh, _speaking_ of Mituna, how about we go visit him? I’m sure he would _love_ to be initiated into another pointless argument that, _no suprise_ , would start on _your_ behalf! But _please_ don’t think I’m trying to vent my frustration out on you; no, I'm just trying to better you as a person. Because I consider myself well-informed on basic morals and society’s social standards  but _apparently_ , in _your_ outdated dictionary, a good person means one which acts like an unsympathetic ass. But enough about your inconsiderate behavior; I at least _hope_ that you understand and acknowledge my current pain, even in the _slightest_ because, in _all truth_ . . .”

 

With another laugh, your grin spreads wider across your lips as you unintentionally zone out during your good friend’s absurd speech; you’ve gotten used to hearing them by now and sometimes don't even _mind_ hearing them. They provide good napping material. _However_ , there always comes a point where Kankri _knows_ he’s long-winded and hopes to get a reaction out of you. Naturally, you’re _pretty_ smooth and you know what he’s trying to do, so it isn't always easy for him to accomplish that goal. Psh, and he calls _you_ insensitive of all people.

 

With his speech dismissed away into the air, he doesn't _stop_ ; his lips move with diction and confidence, his words filled with what he calls ‘ _purpose and education_ ’. You know that’s bullshit, but you don’t have the heart to tell him what you really think (not _all the time_ , at least). That, or the fact that he sometimes scares the living shit out of you. He may be much shorter and smaller built than you, but _damn_ , can that boy be threatening. Every time you play it off smoothly, _of course_ , but nevertheless, it’s not a pretty conversation. Or experience. That said, you don’t really pay attention to him until his smaller frame takes a large stride forward, his crimson hues burning into your own _(yikes)_ as Kankri jabs a _very_ sharp and _very_ accusing finger into your chest; in which you raise your hands up in mock surrender with another smug grin of confidence your lips. An unintentional chuckle leaves your lips and his small eyebrows downturning forward, eyes narrowing into a deadly and threatening stare. Sure, you _should_ be intimated _(as any normal human would)_ and you _were_ at the start, but now you had gotten used to his monthly bitter tones and aggressive behavior.

 

Far too accustomed to them, you would say.

 

“ . . . you _know_ how I get every few months, Cronus! As if I don’t despise myself enough for it, the very _least_ you could do is give me a small hand with it. It’s only the proper and civil thing to do but _noo_ , you have to stand here and laugh at me while I’m practically begging at your feet!”

 

“Beggin’? _At my feet?_ Sorry Kan, but I don’t see you _‘begging’_ at my feet right n-”

 

“ _Oh for fuck’s sake, shut it Ampora!_ ” The shorter creature snapped in a growl, and threw his free hand into the air in frustration. That’s right; Kankri Vantas _fucking growled_ at you (you're now royally fucked, aren't you. but then again, when are you not these days). “ _Goodness_ , do you _always_ have to be so ignorant? It’s a figure of speech and _just_ for your information, as desperate as I am, I will do _no_ such thing! Don’t expect me to stoop to such low standards and for a _human_ , nevertheless-- oh, _I’m sorry_ , did you find that offensive? Sorry, I’m just trying to get this information through your thick skull, Cronus. I _hope_ you have the minimum amount of mental capacity to understand.”

 

Oh . .   _shit_. Well, _now_ you’re listening and boy, are you a bit intimidated; as usual, unfortunately. You take a step back but almost instantly, he’s there; pressed against your chest and stepping forward with you until you’re backed against the wall with an anxious chuckle. Fuck. Kankri takes this moment to raise to his tippy-toes, his pupils dilating and shift. They’re wide with hunger and desperation, locked onto yours in a sinister manner as his accusing finger soon grips onto the collar of your white shirt. Your smile turns anxious as he pulls your face closer to his, and you can see how his inhumane crimson hues narrow, and how his sharp teeth flash behind pursed lips.

 

“I’d prefer _not_ to hurt you Cronus because unlike _you_ , I actually have some empathy for other people and have _morals_ , and I care for you, which actually means a great deal. But if I have to, I _will-_  So _please_ , do not force my hand like this and act like a fool; instead provide some assistance _for once_ . I get that your small, reserved, and simple mind doesn't understand _anything_ about my species, I really do, but you’re _really_ beginning to sound like a goddamn simpleton with every passing month. _So shut your mouth and put yourself to use._ ”

 

No, no, _you_ ? Feeling anxious right now? _Definitely not._ You’re only _not_ wishing you're not going to end up dead. Okay, maybe you're not _so_ used to it as you thought, so that said, you try to pull a look of sheepish apology on your face, with a nervous chuckle leaving your lips. You can't look into his eyes; they're razor sharp and you _know_ that’s what could get you totally fucked. Literally. A sharp exhale leaves your lips as you wince, feeling the smaller creature grip tighter onto your shirt.

 

However, you’re soon let go, and feel his weight lifted off your chest; Kankri draws a long sigh. That said, with a slow opening of your eyes, you glance ocean blue hues to your shorter friend to find that he has stepped several steps away and has shut his own eyes. His sharp nails dig into the pants of his jeans and he draws several breaths in and out from between his lips; he’s trying to calm himself down. Boy, have you lucked out. Eventually, he gives another sigh, opens his crimson hues _(they’re calm; thank fucking god)_ , and gives you a _somewhat_ apologetic look before taking a step forward towards you. Shamefully, you give a wince before Kankri’s hands lightly tug on the collar of your shirt and jacket, smoothing out your clothing and fixing it. Your sigh of relief is paired with Kankri’s sigh of calidity.

 

Maybe you _aren't_ as used to it as you thought, but you admit you still find it threatening but _hey_ , who wouldn't if their childhood best friend and roommate was a starving incubus?

 

“I’m deeply sorry, Cronus. That was . . _very_ uncalled for, to put in simple terms. Mostly on _my_ behalf, of course. .” You open your mouth to give a shrug, a sheepish grin, and to forgive him but the second you part your lips, his finger is pressed against your mouth to shush you. “Don’t interrupt me, please. It’s very rude. But _anyways_ , I am sincerely sorry. For the most part, at least. You _know_ how I get when I haven’t fed in so long and you _know_ how I feel about it. It breaks my vow of chastity and my moral code but you understand I have no other option, right? Now, just hear me out, Cronus. _I_ haven't done anything to you personally, but in order for it to _stay_ that way, I need your assistance. You’ve seen how I am when I feed after being starved for so long; would you _really_ like to experience that?”

 

Almost immediately at the mention of experiencing such hell, your face twists into a cringe. No, you would definitely _not_ like to be used as a food source for Kankri, _especially_ around this time. Hell fucking _no._

 

It had been an accident. You’d thought Kankri would enjoy some sweets as, for the past few days, he had been _‘sick’_ and never left his room- not even for you to bring him food, and he couldn't even make it to his _classes_ (and Kankri _never_ called in sick; something bad had to have been happenin’, you _knew_ it). The two of you, by that point, were both in your sophomore year of college and had been sharing this same apartment for almost a year; that said, when you had heard screaming from his room, you were concerned. Not moaning of any sort, but full on _screeching_.

You were never really the sort of asshole to _always_ bust into other peoples’ rooms, but knocking wasn't working so you had to; you were panicked as hell for your good pal and it sounded like someone was getting fucking murdered in there-. You had probable suspicion. However, you immediately regretted that decision the moment you saw Kankri on top of a random underclassman who was asleep, and basically being ravaged. Or, it was Kankri that was ravaging himself with,,? The classmate? You didn't really like to think back to it too much. But it looked fucking gnarly, and you had thought that, for a second there, Kankri was going to fuck that sleeping kid to death. That’s not to even _mention_ that it looked like Kankri was some demon entity and sucking the life out of that kid; looking all starved and deprived and _desperate_ . _Sure_ , you understood everyone had their own kinks but that shit was _inhumane_.

It wasn’t a surprise that you had full-on booked it out of Kankri’s room and ended up scared shitless. Later that evening, dinner was quiet, to say the least. But that night, Kankri had explained everything; in which you stared at him in disbelief; fucking wonderful. Who didn't want to be living under the same room as a life-sucking, semon-stealing, basically rapist incubus? Not you. For a good amount of time you thought about moving out, but you had convinced yourself otherwise; you knew Kankri up until now and he _wasn't_ any different, as he had taught you; it was just when he had been deprived of his.. _‘food’_ . Of course, you encouraged him to feed much more often to greatly reduce the intensity and aggressive sex that came out of waiting for so long, and hell, you even _offered_ to help him more often so it wasn't as ravenous but your pal was stubborn; he had a vow to uphold, didn’t he?  

 

But no, _hell no_ was the answer to Kankri’s question. And your incubus friend _very-well_ knew that was your answer. Despite him knowing already, however, the red-eyed creature folded his arms over his chest, his crimson hues burning into yours as he peered up, waiting for an answer to his rhetorical, sarcastic question. Kankri’s foot tapped patiently against the carpet of the apartment you two shared, and you knew a witty answer would likely be your specialty in this point of time, but you knew Kankri well enough to guess that he’d shush you again. Either that or, depending on your answer, go off ranting about whatever long-winded shit he usually goes on about. Yeah, hearing more slop from your pal’s lips isn’t exactly what you’re looking for right now, especially when he’s _still_ glaring up at you suspiciously. Christ.


	2. "He was pretty religious once."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wow an unrealistic amnesia aU whoA

You don’t know him. Not one bit. Not a name, not where he was from, not even if he had a family. All you know was that _every day_ at 10am and 5pm sharp, he’d come to visit you and talk about someone named ‘Kanny’ _(which you assumed was a nickname, seeing you had heard the man refer to the same unknown person as ‘Kankri’ once in awhile)_ . For the past two weeks, he would occasionally  bring small sweets and flowers while he chatted (you must have been close with this stranger, then), but he _always_ had a small, melancholic smile on his lips. At the start of every visit you could always see a small glint of hope in his eyes, as if he was expecting something, but by the end of the hours, it would have turned into another look of despair.

Over this past week you were in the hospital, you were coming to enjoy the small visits but didn’t understand _why_ ; why he always visited, and told stories of this ‘Kanny’. But hell, you couldn’t even understand who _you_ were. All you knew was that, _apparently_ , you had gotten into an accident on the freeway and was now plagued with amnesia, as well as paraplegia. They hadn’t found anything to prove your identity; not a wallet, not a picture, nothing, and said your paralysis would likely be permanent due to your spinal fracture. However, your injury was sensorially incomplete, so the nurses attempted to reassure you in that way. It didn't really help, to be honest.

Several times you had run the theory that maybe the man who always visited was a figure from your past (no, you were almost certain of it), but you couldn't remember or guess _who (and you werent really a fan of assumptions, to be honest, they lead to too much conflict)_ so it had gotten lost and tucked away at the back of your mind. But this unknown man _was_ the only one who paid you any visits at all and, as much fun as speaking to the nurses were, you did need a new topic to talk about every once in awhile .

Now, your eyes linger upon the clock across the room, the large hand slowly, _slowly_ shifting closer to the large ‘10’ with each passing minute. A fingertip rests on the newly turned page, hoving over the next corner to turn as you’ve interrupted your reading to glance up to the clock. Your cognac hues glance downward to proceed onto the next page, before two sharp, yet quiet, knocks are heard from the door, and your eyes soon dart meet those usual, hopeful azure eyes. A barely-audible sigh draws from your lips, paired with a welcoming _(but faint)_ smile as the man pushes the door slightly more open. He leans against the doorway _(something the nurses constantly reminded him_ not _to do)_ , and slides a hand through greased, dark hair, flashing a lopsided smile in return.

“Decent in ‘ere, chief?” _(he persists on calling you that, along with several other nicknames. you’ve gotten used to him insisting to use them after you politely ask him not to. It must have been a nickname you would be used to by now, that is, if you actually_ did _know this man in your past)._

“Of course. Why _wouldn’t_ I be? And anyways, it’s not as if it matters too much, seeing you just _let_ yourself in.”

“Oops, my bad. Sorry.”

Shifting his torso from the doorframe with a shrug, the visitor makes his way and plops down into the chair next to yours with a chuckle and a horrible attempt at an apology, as he tugs off his leather jacket only to fold it and set it behind on his chair _(he always comes wearing that jacket and a t-shirt, with matching slicked back hair and pasty white skin; he immediately comes off as a greaser wanna-be, but that trend ended decades ago and frankly, you find it to be none of your business- but hey, at least he properly folds his jacket)._

The two of you always sit like this in these small visits; your hospital room is only occupied with your bed and two chairs slightly facing each other with a coffee table in between _(which you soon filled with books)._ You found it comfortable _(at least, when a nurse would help you sit down)_ as well as quite accommodating, and by the looks of it, as did he. But, you know, you can't _speak for_ him, so you’ve always just assumed he was content with sitting here,, _er_ ,, is he? _(but it’s really none of your business, anyways, you were hoping to ask him some questions today, not pester him on whether or not he feels comfortable. Which, understandably, is an important thing but you like to think you have to have your priorities in order and the comfort of a man you don’t know, frankly, isn’t that high up on your long list of these unknown ‘priorities’. #possi6ly9ffensive #n9hardfeelings #h9spitality)._

With your ‘important priorities’ in order, a sigh is drawn from your lips as you gently fold the corner to the book in your lap and set it aside, clearing your throat in the process and setting your hands back in your lap. The man sitting across has his elbows resting on his knees, and leans forward across the table slightly, pulling on lamentful smile across his lips. He’s picked up that you still haven't recalled any memories. There’s no look of surprise on his face; you doubt there’d be by this point. Now, it just seems to an empty, melancholic smile of his usual dose of disappointment. Or, so it seems.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this prompt I just read the quote "He used to be pretty religious once" and fell in love with the idea of Cronus being a 'secret' visitor' to amnesia Kankri, and telling him about his best friend and/or boyfriend, aka Kankri (but shh he doesn't know that), and saying the quote above as he is speaking about Kankri's 'suicide' attempt out of frustration while on the freeway.   
> Good chance I will eventually continue it, but yikes.


	3. The Heir and his Slave.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> have some interesting and boring development for kurloz but no mituna.

“All rise! Move yourselves to make way for the King and his son!”

The sound of clattering shoes and heels rung through the tent as, civilian after civilian, each subjugulator rose to their feet at the guard’s order. From each citizen’s lips left a chorus of drunken screams and shouts of excitement, each being in the tent stamping the ground to make even more the noise.

Dozens of indigo flags waved all throughout the large enclosure in celebration; two of which were held by the very same guard which had commanded the attention of the gathered civilians. The flags screamed in the breeze, the painted face of the Second Kingdom’s ruler portrayed in deep black among the striped of purple. It was, at the sight of these flags, that the common people would part in the middle of the crowd, tossing empty drink bottles and glasses around, as well as hissing and murmuring about themselves. As the sea of juggalos parted way, the guard holding the flag stepped to the side of the entrance, his posture upright and his breath free of Faygo. The badge glimmering on the collar of his uniform printed ‘Cantic’ and was followed by an array of various symbols and emblems which shifted and swung on his cuffs as he would lower his flags then raise them once more in celebration, shouting through the crowd.

“Make way for His Majesty, the Grand Highblood and his son, Prince Kurloz of the Makara Dynasty!”

It was in that moment that the guard lowered his head and torso deeply in a bow, and a dozen-or-so uniformed guards would step from the satin curtains, waving their own flags and shouting their own cheers and commands. More shouts ripped from the civilians in the crowd, the exhilaration radiating around the room. It was then, and only then did the shouts quiet down as the King Highblood stepped past the curtains, the towering ruler shoved them aside with elegantly smeared paint dripping from his face. His eyes were cold, stern; catching onto each of the civilizations whom would each bow deeply to show their respect. The King’s horns extended several feet upwards and curled around each other, his royalty portrayed by the sheer massive size and how the paint smeared on his face replicated the mouth of a beast. Long, sharp nails clutched onto the King’s juggling  pin which he swung in his arms, and the satin and bone cloth he was dressed in  wrapped around his torso; proof for how high his position of power was among the civilians.

Along the mighty ruler’s side, however, stood a smaller figure. While still towering in height when compared to the civilians, side-by-side with the king, this young troll was nothing. Long horns sept above and behind them, the tips curling around each other, black locks of hair -both clean and kempt- intertwined with each other, draping barely over this younger figure’s eyes, the florescent purple irises of the young troll, now a dull and cloudy  lavender that glance and looked upon the crowd. By the troll’s upright posture, silk clothing, and small obsidian crown that wrapped around his horns. The slender face of this young troll had also been painted; the white paint and grey of his skin being together to replicate the face of a skull. Upon the silk garments the Prince wore, each lightly embroidered with the outlines of a skeleton, the fur of the goat wrapped around this royal’s neck the head of the animal still attached but precisely sewn so that the draped animal looked neat and clean. The eyes of the deceased animal were carefully stitched up with purple thread, as were the lips of the animal. For one, not even the corpse of an animal, should get the honor of having a free mouth in the presence of royalty. For this young troll, described with elegance and grace, with honor, was the Heir to the throne. The one and only, patiently awaiting to rule when his time will come. Buty for now, the King’s Descendant lead behind the ruler of the kingdom, and as the towering King took a seat in his large throne, his large crown topping off to one of his horns, the Heir did the same, for it was how he learned to be.

Upon the raise of his juggling pin and a shout ripped from his throat, the King slammed that very same pinback on the ground, as all citizens would rise from their position of respect and begin their screaming one more, now in chorus with the shouts booming from the Highblood’s own chest. The motion of slamming the pin against the ground was an action of dominance and order, once to commence whatever chaos may occur. In this case, it was the start of the choosing ceremony. The Heir, on the other hand, simply remained quiet, glancing upon all the civilians in the crowd with half-lidded eyes, a small sigh leaving his lips as he, finger-by-finger, slowly pulled of his aubergine and white skeletal gloves, and hold them outwards, where one of the King’s many servants would arrive with a pillow and gently place them upon the cloth. While in a powerful position nevertheless, the Heir of the throne, Kurloz Makara, had been taught that during these moments of chaos, he must remain still with tranquility. This was to prove that he could be responsible enough for the throne, and it was not until the young Makara would wear the large obsidian crown and rise to take the position of King, that he would be the one to begin the screams and shouts of enthusiasm. For now, the descended Makara would simply glance out towards the crowd, a look of apathy and even a hint of malice in his clouded eyes. Truth be told, Kurloz didn't _mind_ staying quiet; it was much nicer than joining in on the drunken screaming all throughout the crowd.

“Get up on your _motherfucking feet_ ; for let The Choosing Ceremony _begin!_ ” The King shouted out by the top of his lungs once his, his booming voice echoing throughout the indigo tents. A final screech of excitement from the peasants was let out before the King would rightfully take a seats  back in his throne, and slam his pin on the floor two more times. On that cue, guards marched out with ruggedbloods following close behind. It was a variety of rust, brown, and ochreblooded trolls, each wearing the scraps of worn and tattered clothing, their hair greasy and ragged, their horns dulled down and chipped. A couple dozen of each blooded trolls were lead out by guards who yelled ordered at these future slaves, whipping them and clubbing them over the head if they did not move fast enough.

With another crack of their whips, the guards assigned to each blood caste yelled out, “Sit!” and with that, all the dozens of possible slaves were brought down to their knees in their sections. For this was The Choosing Ceremony; each red, brown, and yellow blooded troll from other Empires and Kingdoms, every single one that may have wandered or snuck in, was captured a nd held for auction to be a slave of any sort. It was an occurrence that happened every three years, as naturally, slave owners were expected to allow their slaves to live for at least that amount of time but in truth, hardly any of the townspeople followed that regulation. Although the majority of the options of the choosing were children; their lusus culled and fear-stricken tears running down their cheeks, they were constantly disregarded and if not chosen, any slaves would be tossed into the Caverns. Albeit, it was at the order of the King for the past dozen-or-so years, but now, the fate of these futile slaves would be in the hands of Prince Kurloz. For now, the Heir had proven himself worthy of such a decision, and was now permitted to select his own slave which would serve him.

In the Second Kingdom, it was the King’s duty to select the Heir’s personal servant. That is, until said Heir would be at the proper age and level of sophistication to have proven himself worthy of such a burden on his shoulders. For Kurloz would learn how to properly punish someone below him on the caste system, and treat them with the non-existent level of respect the servants deserved. Whether it be for several days, months, years, or decades, the Makara Prince would be responsible for the disciple of a slave. Thus, the tradition had formed until the Heir could prove himself worthy. According to the Grand Highblood, this tradition had yet to be broken and remained in it’s pure and full repetitious pattern, occurring year, after year, after year. As the King swore through his shouts, it was something the Makara Dynasty prided themselves on. In all honesty, it was something Prince Kurloz never quite understood, however, he went along nevertheless for the sake of tradition and habit. That, and curiosity was never to be shown from someone of such high power.

Time and time again, the Heir would find himself perched on his small throne, eyes gazing down upon the ragged, fifth-coated lower-bloods, eyeing each with a solemn gaze that had remained paired with an inquisitive glance. Every year, the Heir’s indigo hues would flicker from servant to servant, taking in all the repulsive features of each. Their loyalty could have been proven by how they had grasped the Heir’s boot with mud-caked, broken fingers. Fingernails coated with dirt dug into the pristine leather of the Heir’s shoes as the slaves had placed deserpate kisses on his boots with bleeding, flaked lips; they longed for the Successor’s merciful hand to show them benevolence and set them free. However, the Makara Prince would show them neither of those blessings that each slaved prayed for; as it was for the sake of tradition.

Naturally, the Heir became accustomed to watching each glimmer of potential be swept away as he would find himself with a brown-blooded and disobedient wiggler in his care. The Prince no longer complained of his pathetic excuse of a servant -as he had learned through time- that the only thing that rose out of it was screams and shouts from his ancestral King. For, by the King’s word, brown-blooded servants were rather feisty in themselves; having a great chance of abilities and far too much fight. Not only that, however, the Heir would regularly find himself giving orders to and punishing a child which cannot respond to punishment. In every waking moment of the day and night, the servant would scream and sob and shout useless cries, these sobs going long into the night.

They’re futile. Discipline only brings upon more screams and shouts. Screams that, yet again, continue further into the day and screams that only grow in intensity as the young one bleeds more and more, until the putrid shades of brown seep from every crevice in their bodies and soak into the deep-purple wooden floors. More often than not, these wigglers are lead into death; their lifeless mounds of flesh slung  unceremoniously into The Caverns. A place no young morsel would ever wish be thrown in.

But _now_ , it was a new year, a new time, and a new opportunity to select whom would serve this very Prince.  Although the power to select a slave seemed to be of little importance, it was a large step towards the throne for the Heir; whichever slave he chose, would be tied back to him to see how well he had trained this said-slave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aah, my most recent piece that I have an entire 70,000 story planned out. I'll eventually do it (eventually meaning maybe never cough, cough).


	4. ""so uh my death will be ur fault but ill lov u anyways so lets cuddle and cry""

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> literally just 4,000 words of fluffy and angsty kurtuna that drags on for waayy too long

But he wakes you, and you’re suddenly pulled into his chest _(it’s gone, you're safe, you're safe, it's gone)._ His slender fingers entangle in your hair, but you _scream_ _-theyre touching you, they're touching you, their fingers and hands all over you-_ and your eyes shut tight, not wanting to see what lays ahead _._ But it’s cold. Much, much too cold and the bitterness nips at the nape of your neck, and your body curls up into a ball as you isolate yourself away from your moirail. You can't hurt him; not Kurloz, never. You’re scared, you don't want to be near anyone, you _can't._ It's always been a black hole; the people you love sparkling in the everlasting glow of Space, twinkling with radiance until they're all swept up by the negativity and void known as _you_.

 

         So you're screaming. For everyone, everything to get away, shouting and sobbing for Kurloz to kill you, to save himself. But he doesn't. He only just lightly places his fingertips on the skin of your arm; you only yell louder and heave with heavier sobs, your frail frame trembling as you rip yourself away from his touch. The sheets of the bed cling to your naked skin, keeping you warm but you've never felt a colder feeling _ (its lonely, bitter) _ . 

 

         You don't realize how much you're crying until your palemate drapes a chilly hand over your closed eyes, your breath soon hitching in your throat. Slender fingers carefully trace over each scar, each mark you loathed, thought was  _ disgusting _ . Kurloz gives a small whisper, one of reassurance  _ (you can feel the pain in his voice) _ , as your breath trembles and you choke back another sob, holding your breath. 

 

         But he’s  _ here.  _ He knows his fate, he knows what will happen if he stays, but  _ he does.  _

 

_         You've been reminded of this many times over. Every shout ripped from your throat, every tear you’ve shed, was followed by the tracing of scars and soft hums and murmurs that would cause a spark of remembrance within you.  _

_         It’s warm, emitting off the glow of something beautiful.  _

 

Breathless, heaving sobs quiet down to small weeps and whimpers, your knees tapping against your collarbone as your hands grip onto your moirail’s hand _(never, you aren't letting go, not in your life)._ His thumbs rub lightly over your scarred eyelids, letting you know that _he’s there_ , and _he_ _cares,_ as his thin arm soon wraps around your thin frame and pulls you closer into his chest, and your forehead rests against his breastbone _(it's warm, comforting)_. Hands splayed on his bare chest, you grip onto his skin, eyes clenched closed, your nails drawing small beads of purple. It hurts him; Kurloz _knows,_ he _feels_ it but he lets you because it calms you, he knows your need to hold onto him and never let him go _(it reassures you)_.     

         A soft smile touches his lips, but he doesn't stop you, stop the bleeding; he encourages it. 

 

        Trembling gently against his chest, Kurloz doesn't  _ mind _ . The soft murmurs of reassurance pass his lips, with that soft, soothing tone of his you love. He tells you to  _ ‘hush little bee’ _ that _ ‘you're strong, stronger than the fucking Empress, herself’. _ The mention of Her makes your breath hitch, releasing a sob from between your lips  _ (no, no no no, not Her, please) _ , but your moirail only lets out a small, empathetic mumur, causing his sternum vibrate against your forehead. 

 

         You feel several thin fingers rest on your chin, feel your head tilt up _ (slowly, softly, with gentle and caring fingertips; this isn't her) _ ,  and your red and blue hues lightly flicker open, a shaky breath leaving from past your lips. His purple hues focus on yours; they're soft, kind. Kurloz’s eyes remain half lidded in a relaxed position, as a soft but comforting smile blesses his lips. With a touch as soft as can be, his thumb gently swipes under your eyes, picking up the translucent ochre liquid that had been dripping from your waterline before reassuringly resting his fingertips just underneath your cheek. 

 

          Nails gripping tighter into his skin, he doesn't wince; doesn't whine or complain, but only softens his smile and leans his head down  _ (you flinch; you don't want to hurt him further)  _ before he softly presses his lips against your temple, causing you to immediately melt into his chest. Your own sharp teeth digging into your lip, you hold back a soft sob, trying to swallow down further more tears, but Kurloz only brushes his lips against your ear (he’s always so gentle, so  _ careful and kind _ ), before softly murmuring another statement of reassurance, his gentle, kind tone reminding you that  _ ‘ i’m never leaving your side, my wicked bee. relax.’  _

 

__ You do. His fingers slip into your hair, brushing against your frontmost set of horns _ (it’s nice, comforting),  _ your weight soon settling against his warm torso as you tuck your chin back into his chest, purple blankets clinging onto your bare waist as your moirail twirls your hair. You feel his other hand wrap around your frail frame, the soft chill of his fingertips gently pressing against the small of your back, sending a small energy of warmth up your spine. 

 

          The skin of your hips brushes against his; feeling Kurloz’s cool, bare skin against yours eases your tense demeanor, serving as a remembrance that he  _ still _ cares for you, no matter how scarred, beaten, or repulsive your body appears; he’d still place small kisses over the healed scars and touch you with a sense of benignity. 

 

           The silence in the air is soon gone;  a small lullaby fills the space, a chorus of soft and soothing hums as your moirail curls his long and slender body around yours, as if providing a small shelter for you to reside in _ (he’s warm, warmer than the sensation of the sun; his sacred tune of hums fluttering through your scarred ears, calming your sobs).  _

 

            Leaning your weight against his, your breathing calms, slows to the soft tempo of Kurloz’s small tune, your chest soon rising and falling to match his in perfect synchronization. Your breathing comes out in shaky exhales, however, your sobs are replaced by whimpers as you clench your eyes shut and simply allow your hands to rest on the other’s chest. You can basically  _ hear _ the soft smile in his voice as his fingers brush along the base of your horns and he pauses, whispers to you to  _ ‘ breathe, let it all out ‘  _ and that he’s  _ ‘ proud, so fucking proud of your miraculous little heart.’ _

 

             Apologizes flood from your lips  _ (you're sorry; so so sorry for your troubles you bestow upon him) _ , your small frame quivering against your moirail’s chest before he shushes you, lightly presses his lips against the top of your head _ (soft, chaste) _ and tugs you closer with a soft embrace, your apologizes soon fading away into the silence and peaceful notes. Ankles and legs intertwine in a desperate hold, sheets cleave to the soft heat shared by the both of you until you calm. Kurloz holds you, rubbing soft circles along the edge of your hipbone, his other hand gently running along the surface of your closest, leftmost horn _ (he knows, knows how it calms you; exactly how to brush his fingertips and make you melt into his chest).  _

 

__ The air around the two to you combines into one, sharing the warmth, beauty, the luminosity of your relationship. Troubles and worried melt away as you're dragged into the present moment; the one the two to you share as one harmonious being  _ (it's soothing, beautiful).  _

 

His touches and hums are pacifying; they ease your mind and thoughts, and worries all away. You treasure the moment with Kurloz and your splayed hands soon grope around for a hand to hold _ (he’s here, he’s here, he  _ has  _ to be, he can’t be a part of your imagination) _ . The chilly warmth of his left wrist soon comes into your grasp with a desperate hold as his fingers brush against your closest horns  _ (he’s here, he’s here) _ You slump into his chest further as the warmth travels back up your spine _ (he’s warm) _ . 

 

You feel a hand recess down from between your horns; a sharp exhale leaves your lips before your feel your palemate’s wrist twist, and his fingers soon slip between your own. Both of your hands come up in a desperate hold, sheltering his hand with entangled fingers and spark of ardor at the touch of his cool skin, which comforts you; it replaces the bitter cold nipping at your nape. 

 

With a gentle curl of your torso, your forehead taps against his collarbone, your entangled hands pull his down between the two of you, resting between your chest and his; it’s uncomfortable provides  _ reassurance _ . Kurloz doesn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he lowers his head with a tender smile, his slender fingers firmly but softly intertwine further with yours, his thin lips soon placing several chaste kisses atop of your two hands as his other hand gently curls around your hipbone and to the small of your back, each finger cradling a scarred vertebrae, humming away with an angelic tone.

 

It sparks something within you; red and blue colors scintillate between your horns in a brisk dance, and your breath heaves as your shoulders and hips twitch, only to be cradled and held by your palemate. Scarred and frail ankles wrap themselves around thin, pale ones as Kurloz brings his lips from your held hands _ (he still holds on; he holds on tight, you know he doesnt want to let go and you dont want to either, not in a million sweeps) _ and worries, thoughts break away as his regal, iris hues meet your bicolored ones; they’re neverending, showing a path of hope and worry-free paths ahead, laced with a soothing hint of empathy. He doesn’t dare allow your eyes to mimic the color; no, he  _ cares _ . You  _ know  _ Kurloz wouldn’t want to allow such a burden to lay on your shoulders, you  _ know _ he doesn't want to hurt you in that way. 

 

Instead, he simply stares into your own hues, red and blue irises soon glimmering with radiance as he holds that smile across his lips, the smile which provides  _ comfort, _ and the look that reminds you it was just a dream; just a possibility and until then, he’s  _ not leaving,  _ even if it kills him  _ (you know it will, it will but now; the moment is warm, passionate and you dont want to let it go, let it go to waste with your worrying and paranoia. you want to enjoy the moment while it last). _

 

Worries melt away as your eyes remain locked with his, tear stained cheeks slowly gathering up to grow a small, relaxed smile. Touched at the brim with a coating of woe, you do, you _really do_ all you can to enjoy the moment. You’re scared; all you’ve ever brung is pain and sorrow and death, but there’s _hope_. Hope that you’ll be able to enjoy these moments, and not to worry about the future, what forthcoming death will be _your_ fault. Kurloz’s gaze is enticing; not filled with the manipulation ability he possesses, but through the emotional connection that sparks between the two of you when such piles draw the two of you closer, and when such florescent purple hues look into yours. It’s _calming_ _(he sooths your thoughts and antsy soul)._

 

When your palemate reflects that melancholic smile and that rare, limpid purple slips from his waterline silently with a hint of pain on his face, and sounding through the notes of his tune  _ (he cries for you, he cries because he understand, feels the pain emitting off you, emitting off the scum that you are) _ , your  hands grip his tighter and your fingertips rest atop his bony knuckles, fingers slipping between the lonely spaces of his own. His eyes grow softer, remaining locked with yours in an alluring hold, tears still slipping from his eyes  as his right hand slips affectionately between each scarred vertebrae of your spine  _ (lovingly, appreciative, cradling each bump and horrid mark, accepting them as  _ you _ ).  _

 

Locking your bare hips against his, a breathless exhale leaves your lips as your body instinctively presses against his affectionately, the purple sheets that once hugged your stomach and waist are now discarded to your knees as you drag your fingers over Kurloz’s thin ones, your multicolored irises dripping with melancholy, yet glimmering with reassurance and empathy  _ (your pain, he feels your pain, youre doing this to him and he doesnt mind, he supports you and stays by your side to the end and it makes you feels awful but supports you with a sense of fortitude). _

 

With an upwards tilt of your head _ (the angle is somewhat cumbersome, but that doesnt matter) _ , you place a reassuring kiss on his jawline, lips picking up droplets of the translucent liquid running down his cheeks. Your palemate’s smile grow further, more affectionate; appreciative of your concern and the care you reimburse, just as he does for you  _ (he helps you beyond belief, you have to reciprocate, you  _ want  _ to, you dont want to see him drown in pain you set on his shoulders because you care for him, you pity him).  _

 

The remaining space between the two of you closes completely as his right hand tugs you as far into his warm torso as he can, and you hold onto him, melting into his chest; legs tangle, elbows slip between each other, hips press against each other  _ (this is all you’ve wanted, to feel the compassion, the warmth such another being and feel the pity and radiance emitting from their heat).  _ Kurloz’s eyes close, a sigh of content leaving his lips as his left hand holds onto yours in a compassionate hold, and his other traces the small of your back, his lips and nose soon resting into your dandelion hair as you tuck your chin to his chest, soft notes still filling the silence in the air. It’s peaceful.

 

You’re silent as a final high note finished off the lovely melody, eyes shut loosely, body surrounded by pale warmth and lips slightly parted and humming the final note with a broken key  _ (you’ve heard this tune many times; its calming) _ . An airy and light chuckle soon leaves the lips of your palemate, and you can basically  _ hear _ his smile. 

 

_ ‘I’m so fucking proud of you, my wicked ‘Tuna. You are a gift from the Messiahs, themselves.’ _

 

You’ve never understood his religion, but when he says that he’s proud and that you are a  _ gift _ , immediately you feel your heart twist, overflowing with puzzling emotions. He’s  _ proud _ . Not disgusted, not disappointed, but  _ proud.  _ All these perigees, and you  _ still _ havn’t gotten used to hearing it, but everytime it makes your heart wrench and no matter how much you assume the worst and tell yourself you’re just trash, Kurloz shushes you, tells you everything he pities about you. He fills you with confidence, tends to your mental well being, and  _ cares (but they never leave, and it still pains you; youre still scared deep inside, knowing you cant run from your monsters forever) _ . 

 

A breath hitches in your throat and you hold onto his hand firmly, tighter than before. Realization hits you; he has to be wrong, he  _ has _ to be. You’re no gift, you’re a curse and even  _ you _ know it  _ (it’s painful, for you, him, and your fucked up head). _

 

_ ‘No, no, nononono, no, I’m not, I’m not, I’m  _ not _. Kurloz, no,nonono it hurts, it  _ hurts _. It doesn’t, never, never leave it  _ stays _ and it  _ stays _ and, and Kurloz, Kurloz, it hurts.’ _

 

_ ‘I know, Mituna, I know.’  _

 

_ (he does, he does, you know he does))  _

‘ _ I’m sorry, I’msorryI’msorry, sorry, sorry I’m shit, I fucked up, I broke, broke done, my head, it hurts, I’m broken, brokenbrokenfuckingbroken,”  _

 

Double fangs clinging to your bottom lip, a shaky exhale leaves your lips. His fingers rub your own, tracing each damaged fingernail, _ ‘I know you hurt, I know you’re scared, and I very well know all the motherfucking times you’ve awoken sobbing, traumatized. But you’re  _ here _ , and it’s gone. Shush your motherfucking apologizes, ‘Tuna, you’re the perfect kind of broken. You work so, so goddamn hard. Just hold on. You  _ can _ very-fucking-well do it, I  _ promise  _ Mituna. Have I ever broken a promise?’  _ (he hasn't).

  
  


A sob leaves your lips  _ (youre not sure why youre crying, but Kurloz is reassuring; his words comfort you but you cant help it, no, no, no your chest heaves, your nails dig into your moirail, nonono) _ , but you grip onto your palemate tighter, not wanting to let go  _ (he knows he knows, hes seen you and every ugly part of you that you loathe and hate and found disgusting but he promises, he promises, hes genuine).  _ There’s an air of silence; it’s melancholic and strikes both fear and reassurance into your heart. 

 

_ ‘I can’t, noonononono, no, I can’t Kurfloz, no, I cant, I  _ cant _. T..Tulip, she, she got hurt, I-’   _ Your brain is going a million miles an hour, far too fast to form proper words and sentences, but you whisper, you whisper in lisps and you  _ try.  ‘Future is, will be, is the present, it happens, it, it always happens and you hurt, she hurts, it hurts it hurts it,, its not gone, fucking, it stays, and I hate it, I hate me, me, I’m hurting her, hurting her more, more and I hear, I see it, it rep, repea ,,, _ fuck _ , it happens over and over, and  _ over _ , and god, damned, god,, over again, it never stops, she hates, hates me, hatesme,hatesme, _ hatesme _ ,, I, godfucking no, nononono,’ _

 

_ ‘’Mm, you know Latula is wicked glad you’ve made it thus far and still loves you, you  _ know _ that.’ _

Hearing  her name makes you sob once more, but Kurloz slides his hand from yours  _ (you panic as he lets go, nonono he cant), _ but draps it over your eyes. Your hands clasp over his, both layering over his own _ (you immediately calm). _

_ ‘Now shush, my beloved. The future remains obscured if we allow it to be; pay no fucking mind to it and everything will be well. Latula doesn't hate you, she _ loves _ you, but you push away all possibilities and drown yourself in your own wicked and cruel thoughts and fears.’  _ Kurloz is right. You know he is a right and you try to tell yourself the same thing but you don't want to make your expectations too high,  _ you can't.  _ Dragging a sharp exhale between your lips, you grip onto his hands tighter; he gives a reassuring squeeze and a melancholic but soothing smile, and speaks with that soft tone of his that you've come to find pacifying.  _ ‘You work so hard, my love, and you need to relax and give yourself a break. I've never met a motherfucker who is as passionate and devoted to the emotions of others as  _ you _ , Mituna. You deserve to relax and be happy, and think about yourself  _ for once _. . . Now relax, my wicked bee, and allow me to take care of you. Please.”  _

 

With a small hum and movement of his torso, Kurloz lowers his head to almost the height of yours and keeps his eyes warmly locked onto yours. He has a pleading look on his face and you know he’s doing this for you _ (you don't deserve this, you're not worthy of this care) _ , however, he tilts his forward down slowly, his purple hues softly glancing into your own bicolored eyes. Your Prince is close; he’s  _ so  _ close and you sharply exhale, but release a small,soft sound and a nod of your head, rapidly, letting Kurloz know your understanding. 

 

Your palemate, your  _ loving _ palemate, wants to  _ take care of you.  _ With _ genuine  _ affection _. _ Another choke comes out from your lips, but you shut your eyes in relaxation ,accompanied by a slight sigh, as Kurloz presses his forehead against yours, your noses barely touching as yours as he gives a small, but reassuring squeeze of your hand.Catching Kurloz's own tears with your cheeks, the translucent ochre slips from your waterline again but you're not sure  _ why _ . The memories hurt, they're painful, but now you're relaxing . . . so why the tears? 

 

But no, no it doesn't matter,  _ no _ . You have to calm, you have to. Your Prince is soothing and you need, you  _ need _ to relax. But he's proud and he  _ cares _ , but you still cry. Selfish, you're  _ selfish _ , you don't deserve him,you don’t-

 

“ _ Hush, my love. You’re much more motherfucking altruistic than you believe yourself to be, and not at  _ all _ selfish.” (you swear he must be psychic but he knows you so well he knows your habits and what you think but that doesn't matter,no no it does not,but are you, are you really)  _ “ _ You  _ are _ , my beloved palemate. Mm, and don't doubt yourself, allow yourself to be the radical little bee I knw you to be.” _

 

He knows you, every bit of you and he knows your thoughts and feelings because Kurloz  _ notices  _ and he  _ cares _ . Choking back another sob, you take a deep breath from between your lage fangs and let a small, sad, smile, as well as a dry chuckle and murmur, cross your face at his word choice  _ (you expected your horns to pop, but they dont; they stay still and weakly flash blue and red). _ Pushing your forehead further against Kurloz’s, a high-whistle sound is heard from between large double fangs when a sharp exhale escapes, as you give a singular nod of your head.  _ Closer _ , you have to be closer to him. Your palemate keeps you safe, he  _ lets  _ you feel safe so you need to be closer you want to hungrily press your lips against his, you  _ always _ do, but you're scared. You're scared of kissing and it's  _ always _ too sudden and flashes images in your head, sending the voices of the judgmental and doomed your way.

 

Except Kurloz already is accustomed to this.. That’s why he raises both his and your hands to your lips, and lightly rests his thumb over your bottom lip, murmuring a soft, but soothing  _ ‘May I?’  _  before giving a small, melancholic smile  _ (he asked, Kurloz  _ asked _ ). _ You give an immediate nod. ‘ _ Yes. Fucking yes, godyesyes-’  _ But you're disgusting he shouldn't be kissing you, no _ ,no, _ you don't deserve this, he deserves better but you're  _ selfish, _ you're selfish and you _ want _ to smash your lips against his, lose yourself in his touch and pity  _ but-  _

 

You’ve lost all thought as soon as Kurloz  _ very  _ gently, and  _ very  _ softly grazes his lips against yours once, before barely pulling back and returning with another soft, but more contacted touch. Within an instant, a sharp exhale leaves your lips and immediately, you grip onto your palemate’s hand, shoving your own face forward in desperation, colliding your own lips against Kurloz’s, and your teeth clanging against his  _ (desperate, desperate you're desperate you just want to be ripped to shreds or smooched and fucked into oblivion and forget everything, and lose yourself in the moment and wave goodbye to all the bad feelings and pain but, shitshitutjhyoiryjt).  _ But Kurloz only gives a small chuckle, and you know, you  _ know  _ he is happy to oblige, knowing it calms you and lets you vent your pain and rage, even if it does turn into an unattractive fit of teeth.

 

Fervency and ardor fuse in the small chambers of the room as your palemate slides his hands briskly across your cheek, before slipping under and above your torso to rest upon the slim back of yours, returning that kiss with one fueled by a rougher touch laced with compassion  _ (he tries not to be so rough in the return, but you want more, you need ityouneedit) _ . 

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahah another bad piece of writing that I could have condensed into 700 words, whoops.


	5. Why Does Karkat Fit The Lonely, Depressed, Suicidal, Alcoholic Novelist Stereotype So Well?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> attempting first person never did any good for anybody, even a suicidal karkat.

 

The first thing I notice after pushing open ‘Karkat Vantas’ branded oak doors, is that it’s bright.  _ Really _ bright. It’s not until I lean my head forward and out of the glare that, even though the scraps of shitty cloth that hardly pass for curtains are shoved to the side, the three small windows in the first hallway only draw in a minimal amount of light. What few rays of sunshine make it in, reflect off of the metal handrail of the stairs, ready to blind whatever blithering pathetic excuse of a human being isn’t expecting it.

Also known as:  _ me _ .

“Shit.” My hand instinctively raises in a late and useless attempt to shield the ray of light coming from the window that was designed by, probably, _some_ goddamn genius who doesn’t know the fuming ball of gas in the incipisphere rises in the East. But naturally, it seems the world’s full of these ‘infinitely superior’ crackhead designers, so I murmur my great choice of words and slam the door behind me, getting the hell out of that light. Yeah, _thanks_ , but I don’t want to be some chalk-sniffing blind imbecile just yet.                                                                                                                  
The singular roughed-up bag in my hands is soon throw down and across the hallway. It lands in the corner with the sound of the belongings inside probably getting thrown around or breaking against the wood. But, in all honesty, I don’t care too much. It’s just a bunch of useless crap, isn’t it? Setting my new keys on the desk by the door with an obnoxious _clank_ , I sigh and jam my hands in my pockets, pulling out my cell phone with one and a piece of paper with the other. The paper is scrawled with shitty handwriting, which is completely illegible and now more useless than anything I’ve ever seen at this point. Which, in itself, is a pretty crappy situation to get myself in. If I bothered to carry around _paper_ , it’s automatically deemed important.

“God _damn_ _it_ , why do I even..” I crumple up the useless scrap of paper in my hand, shoving it back into my pocket and soon dial the number of the _genius_ asswipe of a friend who's probably never used a pen before in his life because, big surprise, he’s too much of the ‘hot th _’_ it’ to even bother with anything else but his own pitiful and paltry interests.

Sure, I mean, this dude has stayed through thick and thin, but  _ damn _ , can you even get any more snarky than this douche? Not to mention, unsurprisingly, it takes him two rings to pick up. He does it on purpose to weird me out with his weird number fetish. I’m sure of it. 

“‘Sup KK. Make it to your shithole of a place yet?” (Did I forget mention his annoying  lisp that I’ve been forced to deal with since the sixth grade?)

“First of all,  _ yes _ , yes I did.  _ Thanks _ . And second,,-” (he chuckles at your ‘two’ mention. arithmophilliac) “whether I made it or not, the world doesn’t give a flying fuck because _ guess who _ has completely shitty and illegible handwriting that not even the condescending vexation known as  _ you _ can probably read? So do us both a favor and just tell me what you wrote down earlier. And don’t be difficult because I  _ swear to God _ , Captor, if you mutter one word about how I’m being a dickweasel or an ass or  _ whatever  _ out of that stinking, gaping hole in your face you call a mouth, I will personally drive over to your place and punch you in the dick.” Aggressive? Sure, I guess I’m probably being too harsh, but  _ oh my god,  _ can I just get some peace and quiet and settle down before dealing with a tidal wave of nuisance and bullshit? But can you beleieve this douche? Jesus christ, how much worse can you get? Plus, it’s been a long and tiring day and the ideal next few hours of my day include reading up on my book and sleeping. But, I guess that’s not likely for this shitstorm of a day. My hands raise to my temples. I pinch harshly and give out a loud sigh, pacing from back and forth in the hallway and not really wanting to deal with anyone else.

Not surprisingly, ‘Th _ ’ _ ollux’  _ fucking  _ Captor, childhood best friend and ‘hacker extraordinaire’ lets out a snarky chuckle, obviously too distracted by whatever crap he messes with all day to  _ actually  _ get pissed right back. Or, hell, even pay attention to anything coming out of my mouth. But that’s a given, seeing that this entire time I’ve had him on the phone, he’s been obnoxiously tapping away at his keyboard. Great friend I’ve got. “Jesus. Calm down, will you. I never wrote anything down for you, okay? Eheh, what kind of douchebag uses paper notes these days anyways?”

“ _ You _ , asshole.  _ You _ use paper notes. Now would it  _ really  _ kill you to try to use that ‘genius’ brain of yours to try to remember, because I’m guessing it was  _ pretty  _ important.”

An exasperated sigh is heard over the phone, followed by the break in typing.  _ Great. _ It grows quiet for a few seconds, but by his following  tone of annoyance and sarcasm, it’s not too hard to assume he’s getting pissed and grinding his oversized teeth. “ _ Listen _ , Vantas. I’m pretty damn sure I would have remembered if I wrote something down for you or not. Now can I go _ , your Highness _ ? You’re starting to piss me off and I’m  _ busy _ .”

“Oh for  _ fuck’s sake _ , stop being so-” The click of the receiver and a dial tone interrupts me as I’ve barely opened my mouth; my knuckles turn white as I clench the phone and grumble, bringing the cell phone away from my ear and redialing the number.

_ Ring...Ring- ‘The number you have dialed has forwarded you to-’ _

Redial.

_ Ring...Ring- ‘The nu-’ _

I hang up after hearing the second round of the obnoxious sound of rejection from my best pal. Guess it’s safe to assume that Sollux really shows no interest in talking  _ at all. Hell,  _ I don’t blame him; even I wouldn't want to deal with the blithering scumbag known as me, but when it comes to today —another day filled with useless, frustrating bullshit— it’s an understatement to call it a bad day. But hey, aren't these days the norm now? It seems that everyday of my pathetic and meaningless life is filled with whatever bag of shit life decides to chuck my way. I guess the only reason I haven’t off-ed myself yet is probably because I still have to deal with the annoying, frustrating job of finding some sort of gun or rob a goddamn pharmacy or whatever, but hey, patience is a virtue, right?

My bitterness continues ( _ rightfully _ , if I may add) even to the point where I give up on recalling that scumbag again, and shove the cellphone back into my pocket with a growl. It’s  _ frustrating _ . 

“ _Goddamnit_ Captor.”  I grab my bag from the corner of the stairwell and eventually walk down the narrowing hallway. It's an old place. Rustic, wooden doors turn around every corner and dust lounges under fans and on top of chipped counters, waiting for someone to inhale them, and sneeze them back out. Which, admittedly, I do. A lot. _Honestly_ , it’s come to the point where I cover my nose with the helm of my sweater to look around, opening each cupboard and door carefully, not forgetting to wipe down the counter down with my sleeve. No wonder this place was so cheap; it needs major revamping and is dusty as hell. This house was already checked out earlier, too; done by yours truly. But who knows? Maybe someone left a goddamn corpse here to rot while I eat my Cheerios every morning for the next three years. 

But corpses and Cheerios aside, the counters and drawers of the living and dining room floor manage to be wiped clean of dust in no time. Fortunately, without someone ( _ cough cough, me cough) _ suffocating to death. Thank god for sleeves, right? That said, I wipe the arms of sweater on my jeans and plop down into one of the -now clean- barstools at the counter. My forehead lowers into my hands along with a deep sigh, and I shove my bangs to the back of my head. No surprise, everything is stressful. Fortunately, the house was already furnished when I arrived, so that takes a pretty huge burden off, but  _ goddamn.  _ Being a depressed, lonely, and suicidal novelist  _ already _ makes me enough of a stereotype and now- living in a huge, old house? Alone? What next, a corpse is found in the basement?

A deep sigh leaves my lips as I slouch down further and set my head in my arms. In all honestly, a corpse finding would be  _ so _ much better than dealing with my nagging agent (who, coincidentally, is also one of my best friends. what a joy). As much of a blabbering and vexatious prick she can be, she’s right about one thing. That I’m a lazy and pathetic fucktrumpet who’s given up on everything, including my book (should it even be considered a book? or a novel? or anything besides garbage because I’m pretty damn sure a garbage man wouldn’t be able to differentiate between these trashy pieces of paper and  _ literal _ trash). 

Coincidentally, it appears my bag leans against the metal stool, waiting patiently for me to grab my laptop.  _ Great.  _ Not really wanting to deal with that nagging female later on, I spend a few moments debating what to do next. My phone vibrates a few times in my pocket, attempting to pull me out of my daze of concentration, but it doesn’t really matter. Hell, there’s still a boatload of shit to do, as well as n mend a few issues with characters but I’m  _ tired _ and will probably delete whatever I write anyways. My agent will call no matter  _ what _ , and either way, she’ll be bugging me about it constantly. But..  _ gah.  _ Is it worth the effort or not? Eventually, I cave and grumble, pulling my laptop out of the top zipper of my bag and opening it on the counter. It boots up with the painstakingly slow start-up screen that would  _ easily  _ lose a race against a goddamn sloth and opens up into it’s messy desktop. No turning back now. I probably need to organize it soon, though. But, maybe another time. 

The mouse hovers over the Word application and my eyes squint, still pondering over my next move with deep focus. Jesus Christ, Karkat, it’s just a _book_ , it shouldn’t be that difficult. _Sure_ , life and existence is the literal definition of ‘bullshit’ and the first draft of this piece of trash is the worst thing I’ve ever read in my twenty-seven years of existence, but _fuck_. How else am I supposed to feed my lonely, sad and pathetic-excuse-of-a-human-being self? _Ugh_. Goddamnit, when did simple life decisions become so difficult? Oh, wait. Probably since I stopped giving a shit. 

_ Oh, look! _ Trollian! Open! Without any hesitation!  _ Wow! _ I wonder how  _ that _ happened! 

Okay, time to stop all this blithering and brain-frying weird shit and get to doing  _ nothing _ . Looking to the righthand most bar, about three of my friends are logged on, the letters ‘ _ TA, GA and CA _ ’ all colored with their bright as hell individual colors.  _ Ugh. _ There’s probably only  _ one  _ person on that list I feel like talking to right now, but coincidentally, the  _ ‘idle’  _ check is marked off by their name. Not to mention,  _ again, _ how florescent the letters are printed in. Personally, I prefer a nice grey. Colors are too bright to constantly stare at all day, right? And gah, my pals are on but  _ jesus,  _ so is Sollux. There’s still feelings of being a shitty friend lingering around in me, because in all honestly, when am I not? But... _ gah. _ He's still a dickmunching asshole, and it’d be  _ really  _  nice to have that phone number in my hands right about now but- Oh my god. I’m as bipolar as him now.

Quickly with a small tap of my mouse and sigh, I attempt to close out of Trollian before a message pops up from Lord LIthp himself. 

twinArmggedons [TA] started trolling ccckkhuihCfdgdfg[CC] at 11:23. 

TA: hey kk.

TA: an2wer your text2 damniit ii mean what diid you lo2e your phone already. 

TA: eheh twenty two buck2 on the table 2ayiing you diid.

CC: NO. NO I DIDN'T, CAPTOR, BUT WOW THANKS FOR LETTING ME KNOW WHA7T WAS CONSTANTLY VIBRATING AGAINST MY DICK FOR THE PAST TWENTY MINUTES. 

CC: I MEAN WOW WHAT ELSE COULD IT BE BUT THE PLEASURES OF MY BEST BRO TEXTING ME CONSTANTLY AFTER I CALLED HIM TWICE?? YOU KNOW WHAT WOULD HAVE BEEN GREAT? AN ANSWER OR EVEN AT LEAST THE PLEASURE OF LEAVING A VOICEMAIL SO I COULD LET YOU KNOW HOW SORRY I AM FOR BEING AN EQUALLY FRUSTRATING ASSHOLE AND STILL WANTING TO CHECK IF WE’RE FRIENDS BUT I GUESS YOU DON’T REALLY CARE, SO THANKS FOR THAT REASSURANCE.

TA: wow niice but calm your tit2 man you alway2 a2k that anyway2

TA: ii dont even know iif youre jokiing anymore heh

TA: by the way ii got that number you wanted 

CC: OH MY GOD IT’S A GODDAMN MIRACLE, EVERYBODY. THE CROWD INTENSELY SCREAMS WITH DISMAY.. 

           CC: SO WHERE DID YOU FIND IT, MISTER ‘I NEVER WROTE ANYTHING DOWN FOR YOU, OKAY’ ?

TA: je2u2 chrii2t can you 2top wiith all the out of place 2arca2m iit’2 kind of pii22iing me off.

TA: and iif you want to know where iit wa2 you 2hould a2k TZ 

TA: 2he wa2 the one who gave it to me iin the fiir2t place and wa2 al2o the one who gave iit to you two. 

 

My typing pauses for, what I would assume, is a solid three minutes as I glance to the side, squinting softly. Wait, Terezi was with me when we were checking out this place right…? Her cousin is a realtor so Terezi met me here in her own car, I’m positive about that but? Did she give me a number? She must have, right? Before she waved goodbye and drove off. Yeah. She hurried out with her arm in the air and shoved a piece of paper in my hand and drove off. 

Oh fuck. Terezi really did, didn’t she? 

 

CC: OH

CC: FUCK MAN

TA: ‘oh fuck man’ ii2 riight 

TA: ju2t

TA: 617-XXX-XXXX

TA: youre welcome a22hole

 

twinArmeggedions [TA] ceased trolling cdkfdCffgtf [CC] at 11:29. 

 

Before I’ve pushed my pride down to type a response, my eyes glance up and hover among the screen, staring at the final default message in the chat before I click away from the tab and write down the number. Goddamnit. Presenting: Karkat Vantas! A friend no better than a piece of plywood! Exhibit A, everyone. Whoop-de-do, what a surprise; never saw it coming! 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, still conflicted on whether to do third person for this story, or keep failing with first.

**Author's Note:**

> I started most of these about a year ago, and I never finished them.  
> I may do so eventually but ?? Aah, uni keeps me too busy to do anything with writing, rip.  
> If any of these sound interesting to people, I may continue them but I’m undecided.  
> The majority of these, I have planned out. Everstuck and the AU of depressed Karkat may/definitely will become stories, /eventually/, if I can motivate myself to do so, hah. So, uh if you have a preference for which I should fully write out first, then shoot.  
> (Realizing at the time of writing these you had little grasp on the characters' personalities).


End file.
